


the pauper and the princess

by BelovedCreation



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4899451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedCreation/pseuds/BelovedCreation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“my country’s going through some issues so i’m here in hiding and you’re a civilian who lives in the same apartment complex as me” au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma is in hell.

The sink is leaking and the fridge is empty and the rhythmic thumps of a headboard from the other side of the paper-thin wall are the unmistakable sounds of fucking and Crown Princess Emma is literally in hell.

“ _It will only be for a few weeks_ ,” they said

“ _We’ll just say you are staying with friends_ ,” they said.

“ _You wanted independence_ ,” they said.

What they didn’t say was that hiding her away in a neighboring country while her parents worked through what seemed like the first stages of a revolution was going to be less  _Suite Life of Zack and Cody_  and more  _Orange is the New Black_.

I mean. The furniture in this apartment has to be criminal.

Emma covers her head with a lumpy pillow and waits for the creaking to cease before she can finally drift into a restless sleep.

* * *

 

The next morning the thumping starts up again, bright and early, as if her new neighbor has  _nothing to do_  on a Saturday morning except screw the day away. Emma awakes with a scowl and manages to find a package of crackers somewhere deep within her purse. A reasonable-sized account has been set up under an alias with an identification card and a debit card, but Emma is a little scared about leaving the safe-but-stinky walls of the apartment complex.

Its not that she’s never gone grocery shopping before. She’s not been  _that_ sheltered. Its more the rampant paranoia about being recognized, photographed, and Instagrammed. Isn’t there some kind of service that delivers groceries to your door?

She’ll have to ask her godmother Ruby when she comes by to check on Emma. Ruby was the only one trusted with the information about Emma’s whereabouts - even the servants and the security may be in on the grumblings in the air calling her mother a fraud and her father a liar.

Emma had seen the anger in some of the eyes as she passed protesters on the street. She’s not crazy about giving them her new address.

But less than a day in this godforsaken apartment and she’s already bored out of her mind. She needs a television or the internet or-

Two voices start speaking in the apartment next door and Emma stops mid-crunch to listen closer. All she can make out is the tones - one low and seductive, another high-pitched and giggling. She can hear the door open, the voices stop for a moment, what she assumes to be goodbyes murmured, and then the door shuts.

Quick as a whip, Emma dashes to her own door and silently opens it an inch so she can peer into the hallway. The woman walking towards her and towards the stairs is beaming, too distracted by all the late-night and early-morning fucking to pay attention to a peeping princess. She’s totally gorgeous though. She’s got long legs and attractive curves and the kind of face you can’t help but admire. The guy next door is either a total knockout as well or smooth as fuck.

Or - God save them all - both.

* * *

 

It takes a few weeks and a few visits from Ruby, but Emma eventually gets the hang of this whole independence thing. Groceries are dropped off at her door and Emma tries out new recipes most nights until she realizes she’s better at just warming up frozen foods and making macaroni and cheese.

She’s a princess, not a chef.

Emma only allows herself a single hour each day to keep informed on what’s going on at home - an hour to let the tears fall and her fingers tremble on her computer’s mouse pad as she scrolls through articles and blogs and social media. When the hour is done, she wipes her face and cracks open a book or watches another episode of whatever show she’s binge-watching.

More than an hour and Emma might start wondering what happens to a princess if a country overthrows its monarchy.

But today, when she turns the tap to start her post-information shower - it cleanses the mind and the body - nothing comes out of the pipes but a little bit of dust. Emma wriggles the tap furiously, turning to the tiny sink to her right and frowning deeper when water gushes forth. So her shower is broken.  _Great_.

Emma clutches her robe tighter around her body and tiptoes to her front door. She cracks it open just a smidge, checking for any neighbors passing by, and when the coast is clear she slips out and walks briskly down the hall to the owner’s apartment.

Leroy, the man with a short frame and an even shorter temper, is supposed to take care of any handiwork that the apartment residents need. So far, Emma has stayed clear of him, but she’s not exactly relishing the idea of sponge baths until shit at home settles down again. She knocks tentatively on the door, waiting a minute, and then pounding a bit firmer.

“Something I can help you with, love?”

She turns, startled, hand flying to the neck of her robe and keeping it firmly held together. The speaker is watching her from the open door of apartment 1C - this is Mr. Fuck Me in the flesh. And  _oh_ what tantalizing flesh it is. Emma’s fingers grasp even tighter as if he can see right through her knee-length robe to the bare nothing beneath. These blue x-ray eyes just might be able to. The eyes go wide as he takes her in and she responds in kind, lingering on his trim waist and the dusting of dark scruff across his jaw to match his black hair.

Oh no. He really does look like hot shit.

The man’s eyebrows rise and Emma realizes she never answered his question.

“I’m just - just needing Leroy for some help with something.”

He leans more heavily against the doorframe and his hips jut the tiniest bit forward. “I would be happy to help you in any way, darling.”

Emma straightens her spine. “Please go. I need a plumber, not a lame pickup artist.” She turns back to the door and knocks on it again, even louder this time.

“Keep knocking all you please. Leroy will not answer.”

She glares at him over her shoulder. “And why do you say that?”

“Because he is on holiday this week. He shan’t be answering any maintenance calls until he returns.”

“Shit.” Profanities have been falling easier and easier from her lips since her exile. Proper princesses don’t curse, but Emma isn’t a princess right now. She’s just a half-naked woman who’s getting screwed over by her super. Emma turns and glares at 1C.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about plumbing?” Her words are sarcastic, but when he raises a single eyebrow and gives her another once-over she knows that he’s thinking of an innuendo. She rolls her eyes. “Forget it,” she huffs, and starts to make her way back to her apartment.

“Wait, love.” His fingers hook around her elbow, pulling her back to him and making her robe flutter across her thighs. She glares at him again, but all the bravado has drained off of his face. It has been replaced with a hint of sympathy, and as long as he isn’t sorry for her being exiled, she’s fine with the emotion directed at her. “Let me take a look and see if I can’t help you out. Wouldn’t want to prevent the princess from her bath.”

Emma’s mouth gapes open at his choice in nickname. “Princess?” she stutters.

His brow furrows. “I was referring to your robe,” he replies, nodding his head to the crown-patterned silk. She nods, relieved, and lets him follow her back to her place.

* * *

 

Do they teach things like plumbing at public high schools? It appears they must, because 1C taps a few pipes and squints a bit, runs over to his apartment to grab some tools, and returns to put everything back in order. In no time at all, the tap is pouring warm water into her tub and Emma’s toes are already curling in anticipation of her daily ritual.

“I believe your bath is larger than mine, love,” he smirks, wiping his hands off on one of her towels. “Although I suppose I could only be sure if we were to climb in together.” He winks and neatly sets the towel back on the rack.

This whole situation is strange - being in an apartment on her own, cooking for herself, being without the servants always at her beck and call. Even the accents of the people on the streets. But this here, a man openly checking her out, is new. Of course Emma is used to being leered at. When you are a royal your life is about being out in the public, about being judged for every outfit and every hairstyle. But the men who have been allowed to get close enough to smell the perfume on her skin and count the freckles on her cheek have all been painfully aware of her royal status. Their flirting was always highly restrained. A few knew what notoriety came from nailing a royal, but most were looking for a shot at the power and celebrity of the crown.

So what’s this guy’s deal?

Emma places the plug in the drain and turns on the tap again, pouring a liberal amount of bubble bath - her one expensive purchase from the market - and watching as the tub slowly fills.

“You wanna fuck me, huh?”

Crown Princess Emma would never say such things, but 1B can say whatever the hell she wants. Emma watches as his eyes widen slightly before darkening.

“Perhaps I do, Princess.” His tongue rolls around the moniker like sweet chocolate. “What of it?”

“Why? Why do you want to fuck me?”

He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back against the wall, sizing her up. “Well you are bloody gorgeous, for one. But I suspect you already knew that.” Emma shrugs. “For another, you are a tough lass. And I love a challenge.”

Emma tugs on a curl escaped from her ponytail, chewing on her bottom lip. When it looks as though 1C will burst from excitement and curiosity, she turns off the tap and unties the sash at her waist.

“Good enough reasons to start with, but not good enough for me,” she sighs, as though she is amused with his responses. Emma lets her robe fall to the ground and smirks at the way his eyes go wide again and drink in the curves of her body. Slowly, sensuously, Emma steps into the bath and lets the bubbles envelope her weary muscles.

“I’m a shit cook,” Emma sighs. She lets her head falls back and rests her neck on the cool porcelain of the tub. “Invite me for dinner tonight and maybe you can make a better plea.”

His warm chuckle fills up the bathroom. Emma struggles not to look at him. “I believe I can do that, Princess. See you at my place at six.”

And when Emma opens her eyes, he’s gone.

* * *

 

His name is Killian Jones.

He’s a fantastic cook.

They don’t have sex.

* * *

 

As much as he makes her panties wet, Emma doesn’t want to mess this thing up. And its a pretty good thing. She’s got a neighbor who’s funny and clever and can cook actual food like an actual chef. She’d been missing meals that weren’t frozen or dinners that don’t require opening packages of neon orange powder. As soon as she takes her first bite of chicken breast and fried rice, Emma decides that this man needs to become her new best friend.

She invites herself over to watch a movie the next night and the next night and soon they’re reclining on opposite ends of his couch, feet knocking against one another in the middle and splitting a bottle of cheap wine.

He doesn’t say it but Emma’s pretty sure he respects her for rolling her eyes at his innuendos and scoffing at his lame come-ons. Emma’s heard them all before, and she knows how to say  _no_ in the most diplomatic way.

* * *

 

Some days she wants to say  _yes_ though.

* * *

 

She tells him that her name is Emma Swan and she works from home doing research. She keeps it vague, as Ruby encouraged her to do if anyone asks. He tells her he’s ex-Navy, dicking around til he finds a new path, and she actually does go back to her apartment and do research. On him.

Impeccable record.

Looks fine as hell in a uniform.

She may in fact be screwed.

* * *

 

Thursday is pinot noir night. They get together and drink at least two bottles and watch bad reality television and pass out on his couch. This is one of those traditions where the genesis is uncertain but the need to follow is binding, even though it has only been six weeks. But Emma’s single hour of reading articles about home turned into seven when she quickly realized that her parents have fled from the palace and the parliament is in an uproar. She isn’t sure that she has blinked once since those terrifying words crossed her screen, and when someone pounds on her door she comes out of her internet surfing trace with a start.

Her eyes are red and her cheeks are tight with dried tear tracks.

“Emma?” Killian’s voice is strained on the other side of the door. “Emma, are you alright, love?” The pressure on her chest increases at the panic in his voice. She closes her laptop, sets it on the coffee table, and curls into herself under the blankets.

It doesn’t take long for Killian to give up knocking and just use the key she gave him three weeks into their friendship. His footsteps are heavy down the hallway and they stop abruptly right in front of the couch.

“Emma?”

She cracks her eyes open to peer at him balefully. His face is white.

Her eyes slowly close again and then his palm is pressing against her cheek, soft and reassuring. “Do you want to talk about it, love?” he whispers.

Emma shakes her head.

With a twin thumps, Killian toes off his shoes and he lifts the thick blanket to slide underneath and curl his body around hers. She hadn’t realized how much she was shivering until his arms wrap around her waist and his stillness anchors her to this moment, to this world, to hope that tomorrow will be better.

“I’m scared,” she chokes out, finally, when the fifth round of tears has finally faded out and she’s pretty sure she has no moisture left in her body.

His hold just grows stronger and his voice is gruff against her neck. “I know,” he says. “But no matter what it is, you can overcome it.”

* * *

 

The sun is high in the sky when she regains consciousness. Exhaustion had seeped into her bones all day long, and despite how twisted and curled her body had been through the night, she feels a lightness in her body at the sun streaming through the windows and the comfortable solidness pressed against her.

She’s fallen so far in so little time that at this point it would be pointless to lie to herself any longer. If the cooking and the laughing at the drinking and the teasing and the tension hadn’t been enough to convince her, the way he had held her in his arms and brushed tears from her cheeks and reassured her - not that it would all be alright, but that  _she_ would be alright - that pushes her over the edge.

Crown Princess Emma has fallen for an ex-Navy womanizer with a dangerous smirk and a delectable spaghetti recipe.

“I know you’re awake so no use faking it.”

His tone is amused, bordering on flirtatious, and Emma smiles despite herself, just because it is soothing to hear his voice first thing in the morning. She rolls over in his arms and their noses are an inch apart.

“How did you sleep?” she asks.

“Surprisingly well considering this couch is hardly fit for two.”

Emma brushes her nose against his and watches as his eyes widen in surprise.

“Thank you for staying with me last night.”

“It was the honorable thing to do.”

His voice has become breathy and when Emma presses her palm to his chest she can feel his heart beating fast and strong.

She has run out of quips and witticisms and now all that is left is to brush her lips against his, smiling when her lips tingle at the contact, and grinning when his breath hitches in his chest. Emma gets bold - bolder than she ever was with any pre-approved suitor or servant boy cornered in a dark hallway. She grips the soft jersey of his shirt and pulls him forward until her body melts against him, lips to toes, and even then it is not enough when he growls low in his throat and opens his mouth and slides his warm tongue against hers. Emma lifts her leg to wrap around his thigh, rocking her hips forward so his growing hardness slides against her and makes her moan in response.

“Emma.” He tears his lips away from her and grunts a little at the rhythmic thrusting of her hips and the way her mouth is trailing across his jaw and down his throat. “Emma, perhaps we should wait until you have recovered from your trying night-”

“No.” Emma nips at his throat and he hisses - in pleasure, she is quite sure. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Over the years, Emma had received several lectures on what constituted an acceptable suitor and how he was to court her properly. Somehow, she doesn’t think that a mid-morning fuck on her couch meets her mother’s criteria. But when he slides his fingers under the waistband of her sleep pants and runs them along her slick heat, Emma’s thinking more about the feel of him and the taste of him than any of her mother’s stupid rules.

“I- I have protection. In my bedroom,” she manages as he relieves her of her shirt and his hands cup her breasts almost reverently.

“Do you want to retire to your bed?” he hums when she tugs off his shirt as well.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Killian grins, wide and feral, and practically falls over himself in his haste to untangle himself from the blankets and dash to the bedroom. “Where are they, Swan?” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Bedside table! Top drawer!” she hollers back, standing and wriggling out of her pants and underwear. She smiles at the dazed look of lust in his eyes when he returns with a foil packet between thumb and forefinger.

“Bloody hell, I have wanted to see this sight again since that day in your bathroom, love,” he mutters, and then he is kneeling in front of her to kiss and caress her stomach and her thighs and spread her open with his fingers to lick a long stripe along her center, making her knees buckle.

“You are dripping for me,” he sighs, standing and kissing her again, arms wrapping around her and shimmying out of the sweatpants she pulls down his legs. And then he plucks up the condom wrapper again, tears it open with his teeth, winking playfully and making her snort in amusement, and rolls it onto his length.

He pulls her to him, his erection pressing against her stomach, and from the way he caresses her ass and grips her knee to wrap it around his hip, it is obvious how he wants to do this.

“No,” she cuts him off, and she straightens her spine and gives him her best  _commanding princess_  look. Emma brushes her lips against his and steps back so she can turn around, brace her elbows on the arm of the couch, and look back at him with her ass up in the air. “Like this.”

“Oh Swan…” Both palms grip her hips and then he runs two fingers between her legs to tease the tight warmth of her. “You shall be the death of me.”

Emma moans and rock her hips backward. “Only if you get a move on and  _fuck me Killian_.”

He does as she commands, removing his fingers and lining himself up and entering her with a slow slide that makes her cry out his name again. “ _Killian_.”

Crown Princess Emma is no simpering virgin. She’s had her share of lovers, both experienced and inexperienced. But no one has ever fucked her like this, like she’s not something that will break beneath his fingers, shatter into a million fragile pieces if he snaps his hips too hard against her or slides his hand up her back to grip a handful of blonde curls and pull so her back arches almost painfully.

“I knew you would like this, love,” he grunts, every other word punctuated with a thrust of his hips. “You like to pretend that you are prim and proper, but I can tell that all you really wanted was a good fucking.” Killian’s fingers dig into her hip and she can already feel the rising of the bruises she will caress with a smile for the next few days.

She wants to tell him who she is. She wants to tell him how much it means to her that he’s giving this to her, that he’s given her six weeks of improper conversation and inappropriate flirting and genuine friendship. But all she can grunt out as the pleasure begins rippling through her body and the roar between her ears grows is, “Harder.”

He obliges with a dark chuckle, finally releasing her hair and dipping that hand between her legs and stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves. She falls over the edge, almost embarrassingly quickly, but the way she pulsates around him sends him over the edge too, until her name leaves his throat in a long groan and he collapses against her, damp chest to her dripping back.

Part of her hand wondered what he would be like - after sex, after fucking or making love or however they finally did it. She was expecting him to be cocky and proud of himself as he seemed after all of his other conquests, the melody of his fucking having been her evening lullaby some nights. But instead he runs his palms in soothing circles across her flank and whispers reassurances in her ear.

“Are you quite alright, love? Was that too much?”

Emma wriggles out from under him but he only allows her to turn around before he pulls her into his arms, one hand combing through her hair and the other splayed across the small of her back.

“No,” she sighs, burrowing into his arms. “No, that was perfect.”

“Aye, it was.”

* * *

 

They spend the rest of the day in her apartment, mostly naked, eating that disgusting mac n cheese and binge watching a show they’ve both seen a million times. Neither of them tries to initiate sex again, even though Emma can feel the tension rise and fall in the air between them. He’s understood, somehow, that what happened was something she needed after her shitty day. And now she needs this.

Normalcy.

They finally crawl into her bed around midnight, and have lazy sex with the light on so she can see his face above her as he slides into her and so she can dig her fingers into his thick black hair and pull him to her just as she comes, their lips meeting in a sloppy kiss that is all teeth and wet passion.

“Was it a breakup?” Killian asks after they have cleaned up and turned the lights out and she has draped herself across him. “Is that why you were so distraught?”

“No,” she replies firmly. “And today was not rebound sex.”

His fingers comb through her hair gently. She shivers. “Then what was it?”

“I don’t know. But it wasn’t a one time thing.”

* * *

 

Three weeks into this new normal - into pinot noir Thursdays including a side of groping and a big helping of sex - her daily social media binges get easier to handle. Her parents appear at parliament and a new constitution is drafted. Public unrest diminishes and Ruby’s weekly visits are full of more hope than despair.

“Start packing things up, sweetie,” her godmother says with a wide grin, dropping a kiss to the top of Emma’s head and brushing past her into the apartment. “You mom and dad sent me to come get you and bring you home. The story is you were staying with friends on an extended visit. Nothing about fearing for your life or this shithole.” Ruby looks around with a grimace.

And even though Emma has been preparing for this day - hoping for it and dreading it all at the same time - she hasn’t decided what she is going to say.

She gestures at her bedroom. “You get started on the closet, Ruby.” Emma’s hand rests on the doorknob. “I have a goodbye to make first.”

Her knocks sound ominous and final as they echo down the hallway, and even the sight of his smirking face, his body leaning against the frame and his eyes sparkling when they meet her gaze, it isn’t enough to keep her heart from aching. “Couldn’t stay away from me until the evening, eh, Swan?” he teases, his look providing the usual fire beneath her skin.

“No,” she agrees. “But we can’t. I- I have to go.”

“Go?” His brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you step foot from this apartment.”

“Not until today.” She steps forward, up onto her tiptoes, and kisses him, strong and fierce and with the last of her energy before the sobs start. “I have to go, Killian. And I can’t explain.”

He looks angry. And scared. And hurt as hell.

“What do you mean you cannot-”

She cuts him off with another kiss and then she presses a scrap of paper into his hand. “Watch the news tomorrow, Killian. Look at all the media outlets, especially the international ones. When you see the reports you need to see, if you still want to be with me, call this number. And if you don’t, I understand.”

Emma flees to her apartment before he can grab her or demand an explanation but when she and Ruby step into the hallway with their few bags of stuff, Killian is nowhere to be found.

* * *

 

Her homecoming is highly publicized.

The gossip rags go crazy. The nighttime talk shows speculate. Twitter nearly explodes.

Emma doesn’t care.

She stares at the little burner phone on her bedside table, an elegant, heirloom piece that was crafted specially for her great-great grandfather, and doesn’t pass out until almost dawn.

* * *

 

Her parents won’t let her leave the palace, still concerned about security, and the next few days are as torturous as her first in that damn apartment. The food is better, but even the plush mattress and the elegant decor are nothing without Killian’s snide remarks and the way his fingers wove perfectly with hers. She is going stir-crazy, shut in these four ancient walls, and begs her parents to throw a subdued party to celebrate her return.

“Nothing that will make protesters come back!” Emma insists, flashing her dimples at her father and squeezing her mother’s arm reassuringly. “Just some close friends since you’re not letting me go visit anyone.”

They agree, after exchanging concerned looks that they apparently think she can’t see.

She decides to go with a dinner party - something subdued and elegant, while still being laid back. Emma fills her week with planning the menu and choosing the invites and the decor and trying not to think about deep blue eyes and messy black hair. None of the gossip rags pick up on her party - probably because she’s keeping it so low key - and for that she is grateful.

The last thing this kingdom needs is another scandal.

But when the doors open to let in her first guest her heart is still pounding with half-fear and half-excitement. She pulls Elsa, Duchess of Arendelle, into a less-than-proper hug and sighs into her best friend’s embrace.

“You need to come see me soon,” she murmurs in Elsa’s ear. “Just the two of us. I’ve got a whole lot to fill you in on.”

“What? Did you fall in love with a handsome stranger while you were gone for three months?”

And Emma’s face turns  _just_ pink enough for Elsa to notice and the duchess’s smiles spreads into a smirk and she shoves Emma’s shoulder. “You did!” she laughs. “Oh my god, you finally did! I knew it would happen sooner or later!”

“Quiet!” Emma hisses, and her balance is so thrown off by Elsa’s push and by her own shock that she bumps up against one of the zillion guards standing watch in the entryway. “Sorry,” she mutters, looking over her shoulder to give him a sheepish look, then turning back to her friend.

She freezes.

She blinks.

And then Crown Princess Emma slowly rotates her body and stares into the familiar blue eyes of Killian Jones.

He’s clean-shaven and his usually-messy hair is slicked back. He looks younger, somehow. More innocent.

She hates it.

“What the hell?” She exclaims, so shocked that she forgets all of her propriety and genteel upbringing and blurts out the one and only thought on her mind. “Killian, what are you doing here?”

The sheepish smile he gives her is familiar, as it was just on her face, and his uniform is familiar too, though it looks strange on him after all the time she’s seen him naked.

“I am- er- working?”

“Working?” Emma is gaping now, unabashedly so, and even though she can see more guests out of the corner of her eye, nothing seems as important as this conversation.

“Love.” Killian steps forward and his arm raises up and then he hesitates, as though he is no longer allowed to touch her. “I thought your parents told you. I was,” his voice lowers, “hired to protect you during the revolution. I-” he scratches behind his ear nervously, “I did not imagine you would want to speak to me when you discovered the truth. I am still waiting on my transfer request to come through.”

Ignoring the incoming guests and Elsa’s eyes burning a hole in the back of her head, Emma grips one of the lapels of Killian’s uniform jacket and drags him down the nearest hallway, away from curious ears and eyes.

“Just tell me,” she spits out. “Was any of it true? Any of it at all?” Her chest is tight with fear. She had thought she was having a grand romantic affair with a man who did not care about the crowns she wore or the jewlery in her treasury. It felt  _real_ as none of her other romances had before, and the thought that it was all just a lie, a stupid protection, makes hot tears well up in the corners of her eyes.

He takes a deep breath and looks her straight in the eye, his expression open and genuine. Her heart stops. “I am ex-Navy. I was hired for your protection in case anyone discovered you. I hid my mission from you, but I never pretended to be someone I was not. I was meant to be an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend. But I fell in love with you, Emma, even though doing so might have put us both in more danger.”

Emma does not hear the word  _danger_ because all she can focus on is  _love_ and how he says it so close to her own name - not  _Princess_ or  _Swan_. And nothing else really matters after that. She surges forward, moving on instinct alone, and kissing him after these two weeks is like coming up for air.

She can breathe.

And she can smile without faking it.

“I love you too,” she whispers against his lips before leaning forward to kiss him again. “And I still wish you would have called, you stubborn ass. I wish you would have told me sooner.”

He chuckles and his fingers dig into her hip. “I would have revealed myself after we made love, but I was afraid you would be upset and no longer accept my protection." His eyes sparkle. "I am not the only stubborn ass around here, Princess.”

And though his words would cause half the court to gasp in shock and call for his resignation, Emma only snorts and kisses him again and before they return to her now-annoying dinner party, Crown Princess Emma does a very thorough job of creating a hickey on his neck that will not be sure to get him in trouble at uniform inspection the next day.

And if she’s lucky, he’ll get his revenge soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I never planned on writing this, but after all the lovely feedback, I started thinking and got inspired!

The Royal Guard uniforms are highly, highly uncomfortable.

In Killian Jones’ final half hour of duty, he finds himself fidgeting with the collar no less than seven times, tugging and yanking and adjusting despite the fact that there is no possible way for his new uniform to feel anything like his old Navy uniform. The jacket cuts in at that armpit as well, making him roll his shoulders ridiculously high in order to refrain from scratching under his arms, and the stark white does nothing for his complexion or his eyes as the deep blue had.

When the clock strikes ten o’clock and the next shift arrives, starched and polished and looking refreshed for duty, Killian tries not to let his relief show too obviously. He follows his fellow guards down the maze of palace hallways into the small locker room designated for them. But while the other men’s shoulders relax and faces smile as they strip off the jackets and the waistcoats and the tight-fitting pants, Killian’s wardrobe change does not bring the same decrease in tension. They give him strange, hostile looks, untrusting of the new guard with the strange accent and the foreign passport, and Killian feels as though his uniform may never fully be peeled away.

Killian is used to uniforms by now. He’s worn enough in his life, from his years at a private school to the years at the academy, preparing for service to the crown’s Navy and the thick blue uniforms with gleaming bronze buttons and the silly little ceremonial hats. That was the uniform he wore the most comfortably - when he was old enough to know who he was and what he believed in. When he was old enough to know that when he didn’t believe in his King anymore, there was no need to re-enlist.

Civilian clothes hang strangely on Killian Jones.

But he wears them well enough this evening, exiting the locker room and the plans being made for a pint at a nearby pub, adjusting the collar of his black leather jacket as he makes his way not toward the barracks, but toward a more private wing of the palace.

The head of the guard, Commander Du Lac, gives him a wary look as Killian attempts nonchalance. “Jones,” he grunts.

Killian’s heels click together smartly and he salutes his commanding officer. “Sir.”

Du Lac rolls his eyes. “She told me to let you through.”

The eager smile that splits Killian’s face is most certainly not a familiar one, though it has become a habit in the previous months. Killian’s shoulders finally relax and he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “She did?”

“Yes.” Du Lac steps to the side and reveals the dark, empty hallway behind him. “Tell her this is the last time I do this. She needs to tell her parents soon.”

“Aye, Sir,” Killian replies with a grin, and almost trips over his bloody feet in his haste to make his way toward the large door at the end of the hallway. He will deliver no such message, as Commander Du Lac will continue doing his future sovereign’s bidding as long as the man has breath in his lungs. It is the nature of her charms, to enchant all the palace staff until they are putty in her hands.

He knocks two times on the door, quietly, and strains his ears to hear her gentle, “Come in.” Killian does as she bids, slipping into the softly-lit room where Crown Princess Emma sits in the middle of a grand, four-poster bed, back against the headboard, and thick quilt fisted in one hand under her chin. As he watches, their eyes locking together and her flushed face breaking into a hazy sort of smile, she lowers the blankets and reveals her naked form, her other hand stroking the damp folds beneath her parted thighs.

“Your- Your Highness.” He attempts a clumsy bow and her smile turns feral.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she purrs. “Thinking about you for almost an hour now, imagining you coming to see me and how you’re going to fuck me.”

Killian attempts to stand at attention, be as firm and unwielding as the uniform he just peeled from his anxious body. But instead he finds himself groaning as two of her fingers dip into her opening and her hips jut forward to accommodate the intrusion.

“Emma.” He swallows. “I thought we had decided that we needed to discuss this-”

“I don’t want to talk,” she interrupts. “If all you want to do is talk, then I might as well take care of myself.” The finger flicking at her clit doubles in time and Emma bites her bottom lip obscenely.

In the four months that Killian has known Crown Princess Emma, guarding her from harm as her neighbor in his home country and now, in the palace, out in the open, he has learned two very important things. The first is that the woman is hard-headed. Once determined to a task, she will complete it to the very end. He watches her eyelashes flutter at the pleasure coursing through her body and knows she will fall over the edge soon.

The second thing he learned is that he is utterly helpless in the face of her charms.

“You are welcome to it, love,” he says, shedding that layer of dignity and slipping into the persona that comes so easily around her, the lover who is always brimming with innuendo, who whispers dirty things in her ear as he slides inside of her. Killian palms his rapidly-growing erection through his jeans and raises his brow in boredom. “Show me how you love to be touched so that when I fuck you, I can ravish you properly.”

It takes only another few seconds, Emma’s eyes slamming shut as her fingers piston in and out of her sopping center, before she comes with a soft cry.

Killian does not allow her to relax, immediately unzipping his fly and pulling down his pants just enough to release his cock, then grasping her dainty ankle and pulling her roughly to the end of the bed. The aftershocks of her orgasm are still rippling as he thrusts inside of her, burying himself to the hilt, and she cries out again, his name, and with a groan he snaps his hips against hers over and over again.

After a few minutes her fingers find her bundle of nerves again, flicking and pressing and making her squeeze around him, but he bats away her hand and replaces it with his own.

“I told you that this time I would ravish you, darling,” he growls, hooking her knee over his shoulder with his free hand and relishing the gasp of surprise she lets out at the new angle. “So let me take charge.”

They fall apart almost instantaneously, his name on her lips the strongest aphrodisiac he could imagine.

In the moments after sex, as they hold each other until their muscles get sore, and then slip into her gorgeous, marble-tiled bathroom to clean up, it almost feels as though they are back in the apartments with thin walls and horrible acoustics. Of course, the palace is much finer than their home for three months, but it is the easy way she kisses his neck as she leans across him to dry her hands, the way she glares when he teasingly swats at her glorious backside. It is this coziness, as though this room is  _theirs_ and not just hers.

“Wanna watch something?” she asks, sliding her arms into the infamous crown-patterned robe, not bothering with the sash, and gesturing to the flat screen facing a plush couch. “I could probably convince Lance to go get us popcorn.” Emma smirks. “I’ll even let you hide in the closet when he comes to deliver it.”

Killian picks at imaginary dirt beneath his fingernails. “I’m not sure, love, perhaps I should depart before someone discovers us-”

Her nose nudges against his collarbone and her palms press into the muscles of his back, still tense from his shift. “No one is going to discover us. Can’t you just pretend that we’re back at the apartment? Pinot noir night?”

He presses a smile into her soft golden waves. She does not use the same shampoo anymore, giving it up for something no doubt much more expensive and luxurious. He sighs. “Do you even have pinot noir?”

Emma’s chuckle is warm against his chest, and the warmth travels straight to his heart. “I can go have Lance get some.”

“One day Commander Du Lac will stop listening to what you say.”

“Not a chance. The man knows that I’ll make him a general or something some day when I’m-” But she stops abruptly and Killian puzzles over why she has not finished her sentence.

The princess whispers her orders down the quiet corridor and after splitting a bottle, Killian stumbles out of the palace, drunk on wine and on a vixen in frog-patterned pajama shorts.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite Emma’s most welcome company, it does not take long for Killian to feel as trapped as he had been in that apartment, all of his days in the palace and his nights in the barracks blending into one. There’s even water damage above his bed in the same shape as a stain above his bed in the apartment, the two morphing into one image in his mind as he drifts to sleep. Killian has never felt so  _contained_ as he does now.

He misses home. He misses his brother Liam, on his own overseas mission, still loyal to the corrupt monarch whose name is ash on Killian’s tongue. Killian and Liam exchange emails frequently, video chat less frequently, but a home without him has never and will never quite feel like home.

Killian can find comfort, at least, in the honor of his current sovereign, the Queen with her sweet and open smiles - so like her daughter - nodding at him every time she passes him in the palace halls. He imagines that it is the royal couple who have expedited his citizenship papers. That is honestly as corrupt as they are, according to the other guards who give him appraising looks in the barrack kitchen. The revolution was total bullshit, perpetrated by a pair of greedy Parliament members who planted papers and forged documents. In truth, the Royal House of White is as spotless as their name.

It is the morning after another such conversation with his fellow guards, cautiously filling him in on the nation’s recent history, that Killian is called to the Commander’s office and finds, to his delight, that he has been assigned as one of the escorts for King David’s goodwill trip the following week. The chance to breathe fresh air, to step out of the castle walls, to fly to another country - it makes Killian grin, and he rushes out of the office to hide his glee from Du Lac.

There are only eight of them on the plane when it glides down the runway, catching flight in a steady climb that makes Killian’s stomach sink to his toes and his fingers grip the seat’s arms in a way that betrays his trepidation. Along with King David are the pilot, co-pilot, the plane’s stewardess, the King’s personal assistant Anna, Killian, and two other guards. The number of personnel seem foolishly few following a near-coup, but the King is all-smiles.

“Jones.” Killian starts at the sound of his surname and snaps his eyes to the King. “Might I have a word?” The royal dismisses his assistant with a nod of his head and she scurries out of her seat and toward the front of the plane, leaving the space empty beside the King lounging in the backmost seat. Killian stands on air-wobbly legs and trades places with the woman with soft red hair.

“Your Majesty.” He attempts a short, informal nod when he has buckled himself in, but the man waves him off with a chuckle.

“At this moment, I am no king, just a father,” he mutters, scratching his cheek in thought. “I was wondering if you could tell me what my daugher was like. During your tenure protecting her.”

Killian wills his cheeks not to flush red as images of him bending the beautiful princess over a sofa flash through his mind. “I’m afraid-” he stammers, trying to compose himself, “I do not know what you mean.”

The King sighs and his eyes dart out the window, to impossibly fluffy clouds that seem to hover right below them. The sight is picturesque to say the least. “I was worried that the unrest was a blow to her spirits. She seems quite different now. What was she like when you were neighbors?”

The man’s eyes return to Killian and he really does not look like a ruler of a country. Just a concerned parent. Somewhere within him, Killian’s heart turns in jealousy that his own father was never this invested. Killian searches for his words.

“She was guarded. Secretive. I suppose that was mostly due to fear and the sensibility not to trust strangers. After all, had she been discovered the results might have been disastrous.”

“That must be what I am seeing,” he sighs. “The lingering effects of that fear. My daughter was always so open before.”

“She was-” Killian pauses, wondering how to be honest without revealing everything, “-she was not always so closed off, Your Majesty. We grew to be quite good friends before too long. I believe she was lonely. It was a terribly isolating experience for her.”

A hand claps his shoulder and the King gives him a watery smile. “I am glad to hear that, Jones. My daughter was very vulnerable during that time. She needed someone that she could rely on to protect her from all dangers. Perhaps I will talk to Du Lac and have you put on her detail for the next month or so and have her staff schedule more social engagements. You can help put her at ease as she re-enters the world. I don’t like my daughter isolating herself.” He fixes Killian with a mock glare, a twinkle in his eye. “But you watch out for those suitors. I wouldn’t want anyone to prey on my little girl as she’s recovering.”

The effort it takes to school his face requires everything Killian has. “Aye, Your Majesty. I will not let her down.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first  _social engagement_ is an afternoon tea party hosted at the home of the Duchess of Arendelle. Killian slides into the limousine's front seat after the princess has already been swept into the car, so when he opens the door for her at the elaborate front door of Lady Elsa, Crown Princess Emma has only a second to let her face betray her surprise before she must enter the party.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses. Emma is wearing a soft pink dress that falls just above her knees, the cut elegant and quite becoming. She truly looks a princess today.

“I am on your detail for the next month,” he whispers, gesturing for her to make her way to the mansion. Killian follows at an acceptable distance and mutters his words quickly in her ear. “Your father thought I could bring out your more  _open_ nature as you re-enter society.”

Emma coughs as though choking on something, but any additional response is cut off by the wide grin of Lady Elsa at the door.

Killian stands with his back to the ivy-covered lattice secluding the garden and observes the affair in silence. There are four ladies and four gentlemen - an intimate number. Killian keeps his eyes on Emma in a way he hopes will be interpreted as protective, not jealous. Especially when Lord Humbert places his hand on the small of the princess’s back and whispers something in her ear. But Emma does not sink into his touch as she does Killian’s. In fact, throughout the party her shoulders remain stiff and her smiles, seen by Killian in profile, are forced.

Whatever the solution to her ill ease, it was not this.

Emma is the first to leave the party, staying only as long as is polite, and she embraces each guest before departing, lingering with her arms around Elsa. Hurried words are exchanged between the two, and then Emma’s smile is plastered on again as she strides through the house, Killian in tow.

Killian opens the car door for her and her fingers clutching on his sleeve drag him in beside her. “Walter,” she barks, giving Killian a glare as he smooths down his wrinkled uniform. “Put up the partition and turn on the music. Give us some privacy.”

If the chauffeur finds anything odd about her request, he does not show it.

“What the  _hell_ was that all about?” Emma hisses, hand grasping his sleeve again and shaking with fury. “I did not  _want_ you on my security detail.”

“Your father requested me, love. What was I to do?”

“Say  _no_!” Emma covers her face with her hands and growls. “You’re fine where you are, Killian.”

“One does not deny the King, Emma. I had no choice.”

“I don’t-” she sighs and reveals her pretty face, twisted in sadness. “I’ll talk to him tonight. Get it all straightened out. This won’t happen again.”

“I am sorry.” Killian folds her hands into his own and wishes he could stop her trembling. “If I had known you were so against this I would have told you sooner. I thought it would be nice to be near you more.”

“Oh Killian.” She slips her fingers from his touch and gently cups his cheek. “This isn’t about me not wanting to see you.”

“Then what is it about?”

She bites her lip. It is one of her tells. Killian feels fear rise up in his chest, but before he can ask her to explain herself fully, to tamp down his paranoia that she might no longer want someone as  _pathetic_ and  _low_ - _class_ as he, she’s closed the distance between her lips and his, and all thought flies out of his brain.

“I can’t control myself around you,” she murmurs, both of her palms pressing down his chest and one cupping the length of him with a force that makes him jolt in the leather seat. “You make me want to do dirty,  _filthy_ things.”

“Is that so, love?” Killian’s fingers tangle in her long, lovely locks, and his mouth blazes a path down her exposed throat so his tongue can sweep across the inticing tops of her breasts. Any concern for her anxiety at his presence this afternoon flies away as all the blood shoots below his waist. “What sort of  _filthy_ things?”

That elegant pink dress of hers looks considerably less dignified when it is pulled up over her hips so she can ride him with abandon, the tight warmth of her the only time he ever feels close to home anymore, breasts bouncing before his mouth and a lovely flush spread across all of her exposed skin. She cleans up afterwards with one of his handkerchiefs and he tucks both it and her panties, plucked off the ground and handed to him with a wink, into his pockets for safekeeping.

They both end up in his wash but it is only the panties, the same soft silk as her pink dress, that he hides in the back of his drawer and runs his thumb over absentmindedly in the coming weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

The media begins to speculate that she is being courted by Lord Humbert.

As Killian is not at any of the parties and teas and dinners to witness their interaction, he cannot say for  _complete_ certainty that they are wrong. But when he brings it up to Emma one hushed night of frenzied lovemaking in her chambers, she assures him  _most convincingly_  that he is the only man she is interested in.

Twice.

 

* * *

 

 

Killian is just beginning to feel at ease in the palace when the decorations for Christmas go up. Huge fir trees are set in almost every corner and garlands and lights and holly can be found at every doorpost. It is a fairy tale come to life, the way that everything smells of vanilla or cinnamon or peppermint, and the guards are even given special pants with playful red stripes so they resemble living candy canes.

The way the men laugh about it, it is obvious that this is a yearly tradition.

The real focus of the season, however, is the Christmas Eve Ball. The cooks are all aflutter preparing trials of delicacies and Killian is one of the men often dragged into the kitchens as a taste-tester. The head cook, affectionately called “Granny,” gives him a look of interest when his critique of her gingerbread cookies calls for more salt, and he becomes a quick favorite of the fierce woman.

When the lists for the guards of the Christmas Eve Ball go up, Killian is surprised to find his name missing.

“Ah yes.” Du Lac narrows his eyes at Killian over a pile of papers and shakes his head. “Their Majesties requested that you attend the Ball as a guest, not as a guard. It is in thanks for your service this summer.” The Commander snorts and lowers his voice. “Although I imagine if they knew exactly  _what_ services you were and still are providing to the Crown Princess, you would not have your head any longer, much less an invitation to a ball. But that’s just my opinion.”

Killian’s face turns red and, having no response, he ducks out of the office with a quick salute.

 

* * *

 

 

The night of the Christmas Eve Ball has a crispness in the air you can nearly taste, snowflakes falling softly from the sky as though the Royal House of White ordered them special, and the scents drifting up from the kitchen enough to make your stomach feel full in anticipation. Killian straightens the collar of his new suit and self-consciously gives himself a final look before exiting the barracks. The men have stopped staring at him so openly, although this personal invitation has seemed to welcome a new opportunity for the foreigner to stick out. Killian makes his way hurriedly toward the grand ballroom, to where his presence is less conspicuous.

There is a strange sort of jitteriness in Killian’s bones as he slips into the receiving line to greet the royal family on his way into the Christmas Eve Ball. It is a feeling as though the cut of his suit is as ill-fitting as this uniform, the fabric not quite molding to his skin as he would like. Killian forces himself not to fidget, not to look around at the guests and imagine all the ways he does not belong. Instead, he trades smiles with his fellow guards, lining the hall, and tries to imagine the perfect opening line that will make both the Queen and King find him utterly irresistible and beg him to court their daughter.

If Liam were here, he would clip the back of his head for his foolishness.

But by the time Killian bows before the royal family, all he has come up with is, “Happy Christmas,” and from the way that they murmur the same back to him, he imagines that this has been a common greeting. He tries not to look too deflated.

His eyes drift from the Queen and the King to the Crown Princess, but rather than a look of boredom, her eyes grow wide and she sinks into herself a bit, the large red skirt of her dress billowing on the floor as her knees bend.

“Emma?” The Queen seems to have noticed her daughter’s strange behavior as well, and she places a gloved hand on the princess’s arm. “Emma dear, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Emma whispers through gritted teeth. Her eyes are studiously avoiding Killian and he can feel his heart sink lower than his class. It was a mistake to come to the Ball, a mistake to even come to this palace in the first place. He takes a step away from her, ready to flee like a bloody Cinderella. But Emma beats him to the punch, muttering something in her mother’s ear and slipping through a doorway behind the family.

“Your Majesties-” Killian begins, haltingly, but King David cuts him off with a hand.

“What was that about?” The King sounds concerned, but not angry. “Why doesn’t my daughter want to see you? Why did she have you taken off of her detail?”

Killian’s body automatically shoots to attention, posture his only defense. “That is a question you must ask her,” he answers. He cannot reveal her secrets. They are hers alone to share.

“No.” The Queen takes her husband’s elbow and tugs him to her side. It is a motion Killian recognizes from her daughter. “That is a question we will ask her together.” She gestures for a servant to come over and commands that the receiving line will be halted. “Come, young man,” she orders, pulling the King along and sparing Killian a mere glance over her shoulder. “I do not care to ruin my Christmas Eve.”

He follows the royal couple down the dim passageway, the scents of the feast immediately cut off when the door closes behind him. The trio walk swiftly through the maze of halls until they arrive at Princess Emma’s door.

“Emma!” Queen Mary Margaret knocks firmly. “Emma, we are coming in.”

A faint grunt serves as her welcome, and her mother opens the door with only a roll of her eyes.

“Emmaline Eva White, what the hell is going on?” The Queen wastes no time crossing the bedchamber and glaring down at her daughter crumbled in a heap on her couch, lazily clicking through her Netflix. “Why are you not at the Ball where you belong?”

Emma shrugs, glances up briefly, locks eyes with Killian, and swallows audibly.

“Okay, that’s enough.” King David snatches the remote from her hands and gestures towards Killian. “I want to know what is going on with this young man. Why did you expedite his citizenship one day and then ask for him off of your security detail the next? Has he done something?”

“N-no, Father,” Emma stammers, shoulders hunching forward a bit before she rolls them back and finally faces him with determination. “He has done nothing except win my heart.”

Well, her parents are not sure how to handle  _that_ , their jaws falling open in unison and the remote her father has been swinging in the air drifting down to his side. As one, the royal couple turn their gaze to Killian, and a flush rises up his neck at their inspection.

“Did you know about this?” The Queen asks Killian, clearly surprised.

“I did, Your Majesty. I love her too.” Killian looks back at Emma and swallows, sincere and open even if she is about to crush his heart or her parents forbid them to see one another. “More than I ever imagined possible.”

A blush climbs up Emma’s cheeks as well, something sweet and pink and more innocent than he has ever seen before. His heart stutters in his chest.

“So what is the problem?” The Queen’s question makes Killian blink. One of her dark brows is raised in curiosity. “Your father was a sheep farmer when we met - romances like this have never been discouraged, Emma. Why did you hide this from us? And why did you run from Killian tonight?”

“It’s… complicated.”

Her parents exchanged exasperated looks at her ambiguous answer, her father sighing and wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Why don’t we go, Mary Margaret,” he says. “I think these two need to work some things out.”

With concerned glances, the King and Queen exit the room, leaving the remote on her bed, and the door shuts softly and firmly behind them. The sound echoes in the silent bedchamber.

“Emma.” Killian shuffles his feet, unsure of where to go or what to do. Does she love him still? Is she repulsed by him - by who he is and what he does to her and how little he can give her? Killian wants to pull her into his arms, but he finds himself stepping backwards instead. “What did I do, love?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes are still avoiding him, fixed on the screen and the endlessly scrolling images of the Netflix menu. “You didn’t do anything, Killian. This is all my fault.”

“Now I know that is not true.” His heart aches at the brokenness in her voice, and despite how he wants to stand at attention and be proper in the presence of a Crown Princess, Killian finds himself bowing before her, on his knees on the floor, hands scooping up her shaking fingers and pressing a kiss to each trembling fingertip. “You are  _perfect_ , Swan.” Her eyes squeeze closed at the sound of the nickname, and tears leak from the corners of her eyes.

“Emma.” His voice is breaking now and his heart is breaking too. “Emma, love, please tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

“I’m just-” she tucks her chin into her chest and speaks into her lap. “I’m just scared, Killian. I’m scared that you can’t really love  _Crown Princess Emma_. I’m scared all you can love is  _Emma Swan_.”

“Bloody hell.” A bubble of laughter catches in his throat, but he stops it before it can slip out. The way her shoulders are shaking prove that this is no silly concern. Killian bites his lip and settles himself beside her on the loveseat, pressing her against his chest so she can let out shaky sobs.

“Emma. That is the biggest load of bollocks I have ever heard.” She lets out a damp snort near his collarbone and he kisses the top of her head. “Is that why you would not allow me to escort you on any royal engagements? Because you didn’t want me to see you performing your princess duties?” Emma nods and hiccups. “Emma,” Killian gently pries her away from his chest and lifts her chin so she will look him in the eye, “why would you think that?”

“Because,” she hiccups again and swipes at a tear on her lovely cheek, “the girl you fell in love with in those apartments wasn’t the  _real_ me. It was someone I was pretending to be. It was a  _cool_ Emma, one who doesn’t have to be proper and restrained all the time. But in this world I wear fancy dresses and elaborate hairdos and I wave in parades. I thought,” another hiccup escapes, “that you might not want to be with me if you saw me like that. I was worried you wouldn’t want to fuck a princess.”

“Oh Swan.” The endearment falls from his tongue so easily he does not have time to wonder if it is the thing to call her at the moment. But her eyes soften nonetheless, and he brushes a kiss to her forehead. “You are so wrong, love. You  _are_ the woman I fell in love with in that horrible apartment. But you are also a princess, and I’ve fallen in love with that woman too. You are  _both_ Emma. Do you realize how amazing you are? How incredible? How could I not love a woman who can eat an entire family-sized box of macaroni and cheese and also dance a perfect waltz?”

She laughs, finally, and the way her lips turn up makes his heart soar to the heavens again.

“Every new thing I learn about you just makes me love you more. How could you not know that?” He takes her hands in his and peppers kisses across her palms, her wrists, the backs of her hands. “So you see I  _did_ do something wrong, darling. I failed to show you how much I love you. You should have me thrown into the dungeon for crimes against the crown.” Emma laughs again and there are no new tears falling from her eyes.

“Do you believe me, love? Will you allow me to court you - good and proper?”

Emma nods, her lips pressed into a thin line, and she lets out a gasp of emotion. “I’m sorry, Killian,” she says. “I should have said something sooner.”

“I wish you had. We could have saved you so much heartache.” Killian’s lips find hers, bolder that he could have imagined being just a few minutes prior. Her cheek his hot beneath his palm but he only kisses her more fiercely, so her face is a vivid pink when he finally releases her. Killian stands and helps her to her feet so they can exit the room, return to the ball, but before they walk through the door, he stops in his track and turns her to face him.

“If we are being honest, I have a confession to make.” He swallows and, seeing the look of fear cross her face, tries to twist his face into something less severe. “I was afraid that you were pushing me away because you were ashamed of me. I thought you wanted me to be your dirty little secret.”

Instead of saying anything, Emma’s hands fist into the lapels of his new jacket and she hauls him to her, the strength of her grip only matched by the passion of her mouth slanting against his. He can barely breathe when she finally loosens her hold and pushes him away. “Never say that again, Killian Jones,” she spits. Her voice sounds just like her mother’s. “I am a lucky woman to have you by my side and don’t you forget it.” Her next kiss is softer, sweeter, and it wraps around his heart like a loving embrace. He sighs against her lips. “Okay?” she demands when they part.

“Aye, Highness,” he says with as much cheek as he can muster.

 

* * *

 

 

He sneaks into her chamber again hours later, tipsy on flutes of champagne and the promises the princess had whispered in his ear as they twirled dance after dance together in the center of the room. The look Du Lac gives him is less hostile now. Although he can hardly approve of his nighttime visits, the Commander must be a bit relieved that the secret is out of the bag.

When they fall into bed that night, the princess and her beloved pauper, his kisses are softer and his touch is more reverent. She allows him to make love to her as he had often wished, and the feeling of her shuddering beneath him is better than he could have imagined, knowing she truly wants him as much as he wants her.

Instead of a silly little robe, Emma slips on a long, elegant lacy nightgown to kiss him goodnight at her chamber doors. With her long blonde curls falling down her shoulders, she looks every inch the perfect fairytale princess. He tells her so with a kiss on the back of her hand, and she blushes that beautiful, innocent shade of pink.

Proper courting and public inquiries and paparazzi are all to come, but for now, the easy smile she gives him as he slips out of the door - and the dimple that accompanies it - are more powerful than anything that lies before them.


End file.
